


Thirty Kliks

by bexacaust



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Mourning, Seeker!Knockout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[[How many assigments.”, asked the doctor.<br/>“Hm?”, answered the wrecker sharing the berth.<br/>“How many assignments.”<br/>“Triple digits, Knockout. I survived triple digits.”<br/>Knockout nodded, optics closing.]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Kliks

_Every single_ **day** ;   
Every time I  **pray  
I'll Be Missing You...**

**[** _“How many assigments.”, asked the doctor._  
_“Hm?”, answered the wrecker sharing the berth._  
_“How many assignments.”_  
_“Triple digits, Knockout. I survived triple digits.”_  
_Knockout nodded, optics closing._ **]  
** **_  
Thirty kliks._**

Knockout let his servos creep over his shoulders, where wings would be had he stayed his course; had he held high the torch and kept the path.

He remembered, oh how he remembered battle. He remembered the feeling of a spark fading as he tried to keep them alive just a little longer, just a little longer each time. He remained where he stood; the small shelf in front of him smelling of old incense and the ring of holy words in his head.

He remembered the pre-dawn flights and he remembered the empty feeling when it was bodies carted back, not soldiers returning home. He remembered hatefulness; he remembered twisting words like some antithesis.

He remembered washing stains from his hands.

He remembered the exact moment the Doctor in him died.

And he remembered, he remembered being the dove of peace to those who faded into the next world. He remembered Wreckers, he remembered the sick jokes.

And with these memories, came a voice.

A voice assuring him. A voice reasoning with his worry and panic. A voice humming in a broad chest, a body made to withstand hellfire itself. A voice laughing as Knockout scolded him for letting vices get out of control; the smell of rough smoke.

Knockout shut his optics, letting his helm hang heavy as he mourned yet again.

“Triple digits.”, he whispered, “You survived  ** _triple digits_**  with only a few kliks really guaranteed to you so why aren’t you  ** _HERE_**.”

Knockout let his hands fall to his middle; held himself around his waist and wished it was someone else.

In this moment, he was not a playboy extraordinaire.

In this moment, he was not the devil’s doctor with a cold smile and dead optics.

In this moment, he was not the Master Interrogator with a spark like ice.

He was a mourner. He should be draped in the colors of death and sorrow instead of garish reds.

He stumbled back a step, dropping to the berth and letting himself fall to sprawl over it, to bury himself in the berthcovers and breath deep of the scent of rough smoke and incense and warmth and love.

**[** _“We’re guaranteed thirty kliks in the field.”_  
“Why only thirty?”  
“We’re wreckers. We’re there to raise the fury of the Pits themselves.”  
“But why thirty?”  
“Not much is guaranteed in this world; least they can do is give us enough time to  **say goodbye**.” **]**

Knockout let off a single, strained, sob. He muffled it with one arm; it would do no good for the ship to hear him mourning the loss of his other half.

Had they been on a battlefield, he would have heard it one last time. Just one. Last. Time.

_I Love You._  
_I’ll Miss You._  
_**Goodbye.** _

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what I'm doing but I've been told I did this well?


End file.
